


There's a Road Drowned in Starlight

by Muir_Wolf



Category: Doctor Who RPF
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe: Indie Band, Multi, OT3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 08:11:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muir_Wolf/pseuds/Muir_Wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Requisite indie band AU.</p><p> <br/><i>Arthur sharpies in his Chucks, his thin fingers ink-stained, lyrics jotted down on the inside of his wrist from when inspiration struck over breakfast and he couldn’t find any paper. His knee’s propped on top of Matt’s leg, from where Matt’s got stuck between the two of them, crowded in on the bench seat. Karen’s yelling at Matt to learn how to give directions, and Matt’s somehow gotten himself half-eaten by the map.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	There's a Road Drowned in Starlight

**Author's Note:**

> Had this sitting in my gdocs for the last while or so, finally putting it up. Three of the scenes were originally jotted off a few weeks back on tumblr, if they seem familiar.
> 
> Much love/thanks/general adoration for throughthewildblue for prompting/beta'ing me. <333
> 
> _  
> _

It's raining when they start out, but that's not really a surprise. It'd be more surprising if it weren't, Matt declares, and Arthur shoves his guitar case into Matt's arms in a feeble attempt to shut him up. It doesn't work, but Karen sends him to organize everything in the back of the van, and from inside there his voice is so muffled that Arthur just tunes him out completely.

Karen's humming something beneath her breath as she pours steaming coffee into the thermos and grabs a box of water bottles, and Arthur hands Matt the rest of their instruments and their bags. Somehow or other Matt doesn't get himself stuck, and Arthur shuts and locks the back, trying to remember what they might be forgetting.

He grabs his worn backpack filled with notepads and Matt's fiddling with the cord for his iPod in the front. Karen's disappeared back upstairs, and Arthur shoves Matt over on the bench seat to get out of the rain. Matt's accommodating enough, although his wet hair is flopping all over. Arthur huffs out a sigh and snags the extra tee from his backpack, and then pounces, using it to dry Matt's hair. Matt puts up a token protest (although Arthur knows very well that Matt likes fingers in his hair), and it's that sight which greets Karen as she flings open the driver's door.

“Boys,” she says reprimandingly, but when they look up from where they're tangled together, she just grins angelically. “Forgot the camera,” she says, and then snaps a picture of them.

They're still protesting as she starts the van and sets them off down the road.

Matt clicks shut his seatbelt and drums his hands on his knees.

“Right,” he says, “off we go, then!”

–  
–

Karen's been pushing for a tour for months and months. The Raggedy Man musical festival is starting in a few weeks up in Scotland, though, so the timing finally felt right. Karen quit her job as secretary, while Arthur managed to get sacked from his IT job a few weeks ago (not on purpose, unfortunately). Matt's worked something out which involves him writing a few freelance pieces while he's gone, although he's done nothing but bitch about his job since they've known him.

They've been _Karen and the Babes_ for a few years now, and they've sold a decent few songs online. Word of mouth isn't going to get them anywhere big, but mostly they've just done a lot of local shows. Arthur runs their website, and they've put a few videos up on youtube—they definitely have a bit of a following, just never enough to get a label or do this full-time.

They haven't actually talked about what this means—the three of them going off on a road trip slash tour—but for now they're content with being overly superstitious and just going along for the ride. After all, this is the first time the three of them have gone off on vacation together, and while this might not be a proper one, it's surely close enough to count.

Arthur calls the pub they're playing at tonight to confirm—shushing Matt and Karen thoroughly before dialing—and then it's just traffic and bickering and whatever Matt puts on the stereo.

Karen sings along to whatever's playing at the moment, her fingers tapping against the steering wheel. Matt's softer about it, his body relaxed next to Arthur's, his eyes skimming the scene in front of them. Arthur sprawls out in the space that's left, his cheek pressed against the cool window, watching the raindrops slide.

–  
–

They tumble out of the van when they get there, stretching cramped legs and crowding into each others space as if they hadn't been half on top of each other for most of the day—and not even in the fun way.

Karen does voice exercises as she helps grab the instruments they'll use tonight, and she insists on putting eyeliner on Arthur even though Matt agrees it's unnecessary. Matt, of course, doesn't bother changing out of the clothes he's worn all day, so Karen says his opinion doesn't count for anything. (Arthur thinks she might have a point there, but he's not admitting it, hell or high water.)

“Tell me true,” Matt says, leaning in behind Arthur until he can set his chin on Arthur's shoulder, his mouth brushing Arthur's ear, “how bad is this going to go?”

“That depends how drunk they are,” Arthur says, making the 'k' in drunk pop. Karen scrunches up her nose.

“Look up,” she says, the eyeliner pencil cradled in her hand. “And don't worry so much—if it starts going badly, we'll just have Arthur flash his tits, crowd'll go wild.”

“I'm not that sort of girl,” Arthur says, mock-offended. He looks up at the ceiling as Karen works, and Matt's hands span his waist.

“I dunno,” Mat hums against his neck, “think you took your shirt off for me pretty quick, lass.”

“This isn't going to become a thing,” Arthur frowns, as Matt's hand wraps around and palms Arthur's nipple.

“Never,” Karen agrees, nodding with a grin. She's done with his eyes, and shifted closer, and Matt's hand angles downwards between their bodies. “How much time have we got?” she asks, her voice gone a little breathy. Matt pulls back a little, checking his watch.

“Not enough,” he says.

“Right,” Karen says. “Well, next best thing, give each other sex hair.” Matt and Arthur look at each other.

“That doesn't sound like the next best thing,” Matt says.

“Why are we giving each other sex hair?” Arthur adds.

“Crowd'll love it,” Karen assures them. She's turned in front of the mirror, but after a beat she turns back, and somehow her hair's gone all... “Good, isn't it,” she says. “Go on then, you two.”

Matt pokes at Arthur's hair despondently, and after a beat Arthur just rolls his eyes and jumps Matt, tangling his hands in his floppy hair as he kisses him hard. By the time Arthur pulls back, Matt's got one hand fisted in Arthur's hair and the other snagged in Arthur's shirt.

“Not bad,” Karen says meditatively. “Good thing you two don't wear lipstick, though. Hurry up, then, we've got a show to get on with.”

“I might need a moment,” Matt says, his voice strained. Arthur smirks.

–  
–

It isn't until afterwards that they realize they haven't found a hotel. Karen's hair is damp with sweat on the back of her neck, and Matt and Arthur aren't faring much better. They're all riding a stage high, though, and they had a few beers that some surprisingly enthusiastic fans insisted upon. (One of the girls started to climb Arthur, and Matt very chivalrously stepped in and proceeded to rub his face all over Arthur's neck like the weirdo he is. It made the girls start cooing and stop climbing, though, so Arthur wasn't going to make a fuss.)

Now, though, they're leaning against the van somewhat directionless. It's a little after three am, and it's not raining but the air's still heavy with the promise of it.

Matt climbs in the front and pulls out the map, frowning over it. Arthur slides in next to him and searches for motels nearby on his phone. Karen looks between the two of them, sighs, and then grabs the bartender that's walking towards his car.

A few minutes later she's climbing in the van and shaking her head at them.

“Menfolk,” she scoffs.

–  
–

Matt's full on sleep-groping her when she wakes up, and Arthur's face is soft in all the right ways as she looks at him. She checks the time just in case, and then shrugs out of her tee, her hair tickling Matt's face and her shuffling waking Arthur up.

“Let me brush my teeth,” she says, dropping her tee on the comforter as she crawls out of the bed, “and then we're having morning sex. No excuses.”

–  
–

They grab coffee at a petrol station, and Karen almost spills hers all over Arthur's lap when a car in front of them steps on the breaks. (Arthur decides then and there that, Matt's sprawling limbs or not, he'd prefer not to be in the middle.)

Matt pulls out a whole bag of apples from some magic hidey-hole, and they munch on them as the van eats up the road beneath them.

They don't talk about the show the night before, or the fact that more than one person asked if they had a CD out. Asking is one thing, after all, especially after a good few beers. Besides, they've sold a fair few copies of their demo to the people that frequent their local gigs.

“Anyway,” Matt says, picking up mid-conversation, “this is more about us than anything else, isn't it?”

Karen and Arthur unfortunately know him well enough that they know what he means.

“Mini hols,” Karen agrees, her voice light. “Our goals should be playing good music, drinking loads, and having lots of sex.”

“In weird places,” Matt adds, smirking. “We should make a list and do it in loads of weird places.”

“I need better traveling companions,” Arthur moans. Matt slings an arm around the back of the bench seat.

“Nonsense,” he says, “you know we're your favorite. Band or no.”

The thing about the band, though, is that it started out as a laugh, and now it's turned into something of a yearning. It doesn't help that it's all tangled up in the three of them. It's never felt tenuous, but sometimes Arthur thinks that it must be, because things like this don't just happen, do they?

“Mmm,” Arthur says instead, “I dunno. You know how much I loved that IT job. Could anything really ever top that?”

“Quiet, you,” Karen grins. “Now, have we got a place to stay tonight? Because we should probably figure that out first this time around.”

–  
–

“Okay, true question,” Arthur mumbles into Karen's shoulder. Matt gestures for him to continue as he towels off. Arthur refuses to be distracted by all that skin. “Is there an instrument you can't play? Be honest.”

Matt laughs, and Karen looks up from where she's playing solitaire on the bedspread, mostly ignoring the way Arthur's draped over her.

“There's a lot of instruments I can't play,” Matt says.

“But why do you know so many?” Arthur continues, frowning a little as the words come out somewhat muffled. Karen shifts.

“That tickles,” she protests, but he can hear the smile in her voice, so he doesn't take it too seriously. (When Karen is _seriously_ being tickled, she tends to lash out quite violently. She says it's instinctual, but Matt wonders.)

“I was very bored as a child,” Matt says. He keeps his face composed, but they all know that Matt's a lying liar that lies, so Arthur narrows his eyes at him consideringly. The effect is rather ruined by Karen's hair falling over his face as she squirms again, biting back a laugh.

“I don't believe him,” Arthur tells her.

“Right,” Karen says. “Neither do I. Punishment, Mr. Smith, is that you have to go get us food.”

“I just showered!” Matt protests.

“Mmm,” Karen says. “It's a good look on you, but a better look would be you coming through that door with food in your arms.”

“Cruel,” Matt says. “Very cruel.”

–  
–

They’ve got two days between gigs, so they detour off to the cliffs. Inevitably they get lost, and they keep plugging through miles of countryside. Eventually Arthur swaps with Karen, even though she still hasn’t finished teaching him how to drive the van, and Karen slides into the middle and drifts off leaning against Matt’s shoulder.

The sky slips through twilight into a deep, rich blue, and eventually Matt and Arthur admit they aren’t getting anywhere tonight. They pull over on a small side road, and Matt spends twenty minutes in the back shifting banjos and guitars and the harp Karen insisted they bring but never uses into the front seats, while Arthur wakes Karen up and finds half a bottle of flat soda under their seat.

They curl up on an old blanket in the small space they’ve carved in the back, Matt’s face buried in Karen’s neck, Arthur’s feet tangled in Matt’s. Arthur hums a few bars of one of their newest songs when Karen can’t settle, and Matt spreads his fingers out along Arthur’s thigh.

Somewhere outside, an owl hoots, and Karen smothers a laugh in Arthur’s collarbone.

“Musicians,” she giggles, her words hushed for all their levity, “can’t get no _respect._ ”

–  
–

Matt's sitting with his feet dangling out the back when Karen wakes up. A hand-rolled cig is dangling from his fingers and the slim volume of poetry he keeps tucked away in the van is open in his free hand. Karen stretches lazily in the early morning sunlight and frees her legs from the tangled blanket, laying them out over Arthur's.

“You planning on going into modeling?” she asks, affection and amusement warring over her tongue. “Feel like you should be on some advertisement looking like that.”

Matt turns and looks at her, the sun warming his face, and she leans against the wall and thinks she could stay like this, with the two of them, for all her days. Arthur stirs, then, batting her legs off him as he drags himself into a sitting position.

“Bloody hell,” he says, “what time is it? Why can't you two be normal and sleep in? Wait, right, we're still parked on some country road, aren't we.”

“Half a bottle of flat soda, anyone?” Matt offers.

Arthur flips him off and attempts to crawl beneath the drums. The ensuing racket is better than caffeine at waking them up.

–  
–

They do a third show, and a fourth one, and a fifth. Arthur checks their website and says that traffic's up somewhat. Karen gets hit on everywhere they go, and Matt complains that no one seems to want a flirt with _him._ (That night, Karen grabs him and kisses him onstage; suddenly, out of nowhere, the girls are interested.)

The festival is two weeks away, and they're slowly winding their way across the country towards it.

(“I wish this wasn't just hols,” Arthur says one night, Matt's mouth hot and wet around him, Karen kissing her way up his neck.

“This was never just going to be hols,” she says, nosing along his ear.)

–  
–

Karen wakes up and Arthur's writing on her stomach, his eyes far away, his teeth worrying his bottom lip. For a moment she almost kicks him off, but she knows that look. She can't make out the upside down lyrics on her skin, but the slow slide of ink onto her body is relaxing in its own way, and there's nothing worse than losing a train of thought.

Ink washes off, she thinks as he drops an absent kiss on her hip, his wrist still moving.

Something nudges her hand, and when she glances over Matt's watching the two of them, his fingers sliding between her own.

“Wait him out?” he asks, leaning in so his words are little more than breath in her ear. She nods, looking at the lines crossing over her skin.

She thinks she sort of likes being a canvas for once; she thinks she's far more used to being the ink.

–  
–

They stop to stretch their legs up near some ruins. There's a little visitor center near the front, with a small museum and a few pamphlets which are printed a bit uneven, and Matt buys a bracelet for Karen and a pin for Arthur because he's never been able to turn down trinkets. They take a few bottles of water and a loaf of french bread up with them, and lay out on the ground. Karen and Matt chase each other around the crumbling walls, and Arthur settles in the damp grass and picks out a few chords on his guitar.

They've got a show to get to tonight, and Karen says she wants a hot shower first for once, and Matt tries to do a cartwheel and fails spectacularly, and Arthur reminds him he isn't going to be able to play anything with a broken wrist. Matt just trips over and sprawls out on top of Arthur, ignoring Arthur's shouted protests and Karen's bubbling laughter, ignoring the way Arthur tries to shove him off at first and then finally melts beneath him, his slow breaths and steady heartbeat calming Matt's wild patter.

“I'm going to play the harp tonight,” Karen says, and Matt sits up, still half on top of Arthur, and mocks her in a sing-song voice. Karen shoves him, and Arthur snags her wrist and tugs her down to join in their pile.

“We'll do _Auvers,_ ” he promises. “You can play the harp, then.”

“She can't play the harp,” Matt smirks. Karen fondly bats him around the head.

“I've been practicing,” she says. “When you two are busy snoring I've been getting better.”

“You've been sneaking off into the night with the faeries, haven't you,” Matt says, his lips unsteady with amusement.

“Dancing naked under the stars?” Arthur asks, raising an interested eyebrow as his hand slides up Karen's side.

Karen jumps up to her feet and spins, her hair flying wildly around her shoulders as she laughs, her palms splayed out towards the grey sky.

“Only when you bore me!” she shouts, giddy, and Matt and Arthur bound to their feet but she's already off and running out of reach.

–  
–

“ _The Lion King,_ ” Matt admits. “I openly weep.”

Karen shakes her head. “Nope,” she says. “Doesn't count. Everyone cries at that movie.”

“Not _everyone,_ ” Arthur says.

“When Simba's trying to wake Mufasa up? Everyone doesn't cry at that?”

“I...”

“That's not the part I cry over,” Matt says. “I mean, I do that as well, but the part where Pumbaa starts crying?”

Karen stares blankly at him. “I don't even know you,” she says.

“On that note,” Arthur says, looking out the window, “who's up for a trip to the laundromat?”

“Ughhh,” Karen groans. “Can't you just do all of it?”

“How shall I put this,” Arthur says. “No.”

“I don't like you at all.”

“Liking is overrated anyway,” he says.

“Maybe we could just buy new clothes,” Matt says. Arthur throws his jumper at his head.

–  
–

Arthur sharpies in his Chucks, his thin fingers ink-stained, lyrics jotted down on the inside of his wrist from when inspiration struck over breakfast and he couldn’t find any paper. His knee’s propped on top of Matt’s leg, from where Matt’s got stuck between the two of them, crowded in on the bench seat. Karen’s yelling at Matt to learn how to give directions, and Matt’s somehow gotten himself half-eaten by the map, and Arthur takes a break from his sharpie to glance out at the sheep in the fields all around them; somewhere around here’s there’s a town and a pub and an inn with their names on them, but Arthur thinks fuck it and tells Karen to pull over.

He frees Matt from the map and shoves it in the back with their instruments, and then slides over and straddles him and licks into his mouth. Karen’s mouth opens in a little ‘oh,’ and she slides in a little closer, and Arthur thinks he could watch them move against each other for forever. The seat is small, and the road smaller, but they’ve enough time for this (it’s one of their rules, that they always have time for each other), and besides, Arthur can hear the first faint chords of music as Karen’s hair falls around her shoulders and Matt’s fingers dig into his hips. He writes it out as he tangles a hand in Karen’s hair and arches back, hears the bridge as Karen drags her nails lightly down his side.

“Is there any way this ends with us not getting arrested for public indecency?” Matt groans. “No, don't stop,” he adds, “just wondering. I'm perfectly willing to risk it.”

“There's no way either of you are getting your skinny jeans off,” Karen says. “Get the blanket in the back, and hope to Christ there aren't any sheep or horses or farmers in that field.”

“Definitely getting arrested,” Matt says, tugging Arthur's shirt up.

–  
–

“Do you ever think about birds?” Karen asks. Now that she mentions it, there's quite a lot of them in the trees nearby. Just sitting there. Waiting.

“Well, _now_ I do,” Matt scowls.

“You're welcome,” she grins.

–  
–

“New song, maybe,” Arthur says.

“Is this the one you were writing on me?” she asks. Arthur's face sort of folds into a grin; unfortunately it's entirely too endearing, so Karen drops it.

“Let's see,” Matt says, grabbing for Arthur's notepad. Arthur gives it up reluctantly and goes and faceplants on the bed. He's never great with showing them anything he's working on—it's a thing, and they're used to it.

Karen's leaning over Matt's shoulder, a fingers tapping out a rhythm on the back of the chair.

“ _The Pandorica,_ ” she says. “Why does that sound so familiar?”

Matt talks about the stars, sometimes. He knows all the constellations, knows most of the stories behind them, too. (Somehow or other he once used that skill into parlaying himself into being a fill-in psychic one night at a fete. It did not end well.)

Sometimes, of a night, they'll lay out in the damp grass on the blanket, and Matt'll point them out. Lyra and Cygnus and Pegasus and Andromeda, his long, thin fingers stretched up towards the sky.

It's fitting, then, that Arthur wrote a song about them, and slid the paper across to Karen to sing.

“ _The stars have all gone out,_ ” Karen says, letting the words roll over her tongue, “ _and we're left standing in the dark._ ”

–  
–

They drop Arthur off at a copy store before they go check into the campgrounds. They've got a cheap tent shoved in the back that Matt's uncle once owned, and between the two of them they manage to get it set up while Arthur prints out the fliers.

Later, they go walk around. Raggedy Man's been around for a fair few years, now, and there's loads of regulars milling around as well as newbies like them. They run into Rupert, Benedict, Louise, Lara, and Martin—another indie band they jammed with a few years back—and a few other familiar faces. They hand all their fliers out, but they're on one of the less popular stages, and they're trying not to get their hopes up too much.

“What is, is,” Arthur says meditatively, trying to shove back the mix of nerves and anticipation rolling around inside of him.

“Fuck it,” Karen says. “Fuck _that._ We've never played safe before.”

“I didn't say anything about playing safe,” Arthur frowns.

“Give me the setlist,” Matt says, shoving his hand down one of Arthur's pockets.

“You don't need an excuse to grope me,” Arthur says, snagging it out of his other pocket. Matt wiggles his eyebrows distractedly.

“'course I don't,” he says. “Now. Let's finish with _Pandorica._ ”

“I should probably say that's a stupid idea and we're not ready to play it,” Arthur says.

“Should you?” Karen asks. Arthur looks between the two of them for a long moment, memorizes the way the lights around them bend across their skin.

“Every holiday ends,” he says at last. “No might-have-beens.”

–  
–

The morning before they go on, Matt straddles Arthur's hips and sketches out the Argo Navis constellation on his back. It's an old constellation—former constellation, to be precise—and it's been divided up into others since.

It's the shape of the ship, although Matt doesn't need to explain it—he's told them before that it's named for the _Argo_ , Jason and the Argonauts’ ship.

Karen thinks it's fitting, as she watches—a ship or a van, a journey is a journey, and while maybe they aren't sure whether this is the beginning or the end of it, it's still important.

Arthur does Matt, next, writing lyrics down his arms. Karen spots a line or two from Matt's book of poetry mingled in as she does Matt's make-up for him. Arthur hums beneath his breath as he works, and Karen picks it up, until the three of them are humming in tune, giddiness and nerves warring over them.

“Your turn,” Arthur says, when he's done.

Matt kneels down in front of her and writes it out carefully on her stomach, the letters thick and dark: _Karen and her Babes._

“You know,” he says, pressing a kiss to her hip, “I didn't run off with you two just because I love this band.”

“You know,” Karen says, “I'm not taking my top off just to advertise our name.”

“That's why we've got Arthur,” Matt says.

“Someday one of you will say 'I love you' like a normal human being, and the world will implode,” Arthur sighs.

Karen snags his hand in hers and tugs him closer. “Maybe that's why we don't say it,” she says. “Maybe we're saving the planet.”

Matt slides up their bodies, looks at the shape of them.

“If it isn't clear,” he says, “I love this band. I love you more. And now that we've probably jinxed ourselves to kingdom come, it's pouring outside and we need to go get thoroughly soaked.”

“The ink's going to run everywhere, it'll ruin my shirt!” Arthur protests. “This is all one big con to get me shirtless on stage, isn't it.”

“A little running is good for the heart,” Matt grins.

And then he has to prove his point, because Arthur tries to tackle him.

–  
–

They look between each other as they climb onto the stage. It's dusk, and the first few pinpricks of stars are barely visible coming through the clouds.

From somewhere above them, a bird chirps out a few notes, barely audible over the sound of the crowd.

Karen flips the mic in her hand, and then all that's left is

_3_

_2_

_1_

  


  


_Finis_


End file.
